Create and Destroy
by vicious traditions
Summary: Post S2 Finale. When a run-in with a supernatural force leaves Sam with a decidedly un-supernatural illness, Dean begins a race against time to either find a cure, or start his own one-man effort to reverse his deal with the crossroads demon.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Day 8

Through a thick, crusty caking of dust, walls of red dirt and brown, sun-burnt grass rush by the window. Out the windshield, massive expanses of bright blue sky seem to go on forever, finally blending into the yellow dotted line on the asphalt up ahead, where the line between earth and heaven start to blur.

Having shrugged out of the weight of his leather jacket a few miles back, Dean rolls down the window and lets in a heavy gust of hot air that rustles the creased paper in Sam's hands and earns him a silent glare from the corner of his brother's eye. Ignoring him, Dean turns up the volume a little higher on his CCR cassette tape and lets one arm dangle out the window, tapping along with the beat on the heated black metal.

"I had the air conditioning on." Comes the surly remark from Dean's right.

When he turns to glance at his brother, Sam hasn't lifted his head once from distastefully eyeing the map in front of him. Dean gives him a cheerful smile anyway. "I know, I turned it off." Tipping his head out the window, Dean draws in a deep breath through his nose and struggles not to sneeze at the stray pieces of dust that blow into his face. "Nothing like the cool, desert breeze."

Sam snorts, still not lifting his irritated eyes from the diagram. "More like opening an oven door," he mutters, purposely kneeing the dashboard and shifting around restlessly in his seat.

"Aw, come on, Sam. The weather's warm, not a cloud in sight…" Dean can't help but smirk as the fingers holding the paper obscuring Sam's face from view tighten marginally and make a sharp crackling sound. "I can hear you rolling your eyes back there." Dean teases with a wagging finger.

In a huff, the map is punched at and roughly manipulated back into a more compact shape as Sam shoves it away from his face. Wordlessly, he reaches forward and stabs at the A/C button with his thumb. "If you ask me, there's enough hot air in here as it is." He grumbles, settling tensely back in his seat.

Dean tries to take the situation lightly, or as delicately as possible with his little brother in an obviously bitchy mood. "That's just bad for the environment, Sammy," he chides, and hopes for at least some semblance of a grin.

Sam disappoints him by finally meeting his eyes with a glower. "Dean," he warns venomously.

Throwing up his hands in momentary defeat before replacing them on the wheel, Dean sighs his relent. "Alright! Cool your jets. Who crapped in your cereal this morning?" Really, he knows better than to aggravate Sam further when he's like this, because in his experience, it only leads to a fight he didn't mean to start, and then petulant silence.

But it's not as though Sam hasn't been like this for the past five hundred and some miles – because he has. In fact, Sam has been distant ever since they left Wyoming one week ago, and between that fiasco and the stretch of highway ahead of them there'd been an exorcism in Nebraska and a dead-end case in Oklahoma. Okay, so Dean hadn't been so clueless as to hope that getting back to business would magically solve all of their problems, or better yet, drop the solution to reversing a deal with a crossroad demon right into their laps. But he'd at least thought that being on the road again would give them something useful to do instead of slowly driving one another crazy as days dragged by and the concept of time started to feel like hangman's noose.

He didn't expect miracles. But damn it, Sam wasn't making things any easier. When Dean had gotten the tip from Ellen about the case in New Mexico, the details had gone in one ear and out the other. Just as long as it was somewhere sunny, somewhere they could unwind for a little and come up for air, maybe erase some of the deep lines of exhaustion and pain on his little brother's face. That's all Dean is asking for. But Sam has to at least give him something to work with, and so far, he was getting nothing.

When he glances at the passenger side, Dean isn't surprised to see that Sam's glare has gone from irritated to downright pissed off. "Dean, stop it," Sam says shortly.

Dean shoots him a look of what he hopes is pure innocence but is more likely a combination of amusement and his own rapidly mounting annoyance. "Stop what?"

"Stop trying to…cheer me up, if that is what you're doing, because you suck at it," he glowers, crossing his freakishly long arms in front of his chest and staring out at the flat, dusty landscape with a frown. "I still don't see why I agreed to let you drag us all the way out here for nothing." It's probably supposed to sound like resentment, but to Dean it sounds an awful lot like whining.

Raising his eyebrows, Dean smirks. "Because you know from experience that hitchhiking totally sucks," he says, one last vain attempt at humor.

Sam continues to stare listlessly out the window. "Whatever."

Okay, Dean's patience has just about reached its quota of Sam's emo attitude for one day. He squares his shoulders and lets the heat and cramped quarters get the better of him. "Look, man, it's a job, okay?" he insists, shooting his brother a look from the corner of his eye. "All I'm asking is that you stop acting like a five-year-old long enough for us to get it done."

Sam snorts in response. "If there even is a job to _do_. I mean, you tell Ellen that we'll look into this hospital," he scoffs and shakes his head in disbelief. "In freakin' Roswell, no less…"

Dean cuts him off. "Hey, Roswell is awesome, okay? Tons of freaky history here…"

"…Over a bunch of random accounts of weird noises and strange lights." Sam finishes, and Dean can feel his stare without turning to look. "It's probably just a bunch of UFO advocates trying to cause a stir in an already paranoid town, Dean. It's going to turn out to be a complete waste of our time, just like the last one," he says doubtfully.

The seemingly never-ending, straight highway allows Dean to take his eyes off the road long enough to look insolently at his brother. "Hey, that swamp gas could have easily turned out to be some sort of apparition." Okay, so that last hunt had been a bit of a long shot, even Dean could admit – at least privately. "Besides, you don't know that this one won't be worth it. I mean, come on - a white owl appearing inside a hospital at random? A creepy old lady wandering the halls, seen by at least five patients? Sounds right up our alley."

Letting out a sigh, Sam seems to sag against the window in defeat. "For the record, I said you were wrong about this," he says quietly, staring sightlessly at the bright green sign informing them that their destination is less than five miles away

"Dually noted," Dean says, nodding his head once and concentrating on the road. And then suddenly, his smart mouth was moving on its own accord, and the words were snapped out in a rush before he could even think about how badly he wanted to take them back. "Please don't let me keep you from your busy schedule, Princess. Is there something more important you'd rather be doing?" And he wanted to take them back _bad._

Sam's silence is the first sign of an impeding blow-up. It's a long, heavy stillness that is so wrought with tension and so filled with things unspoken and loaded with emotion, Dean swears that it's audible. Deafening, even. But Sam isn't talking, and when Dean finally turns to look at him, he's just sitting there staring at his brother's profile with a look so intense, Dean's sure he can see right through him to the canyons on the other side.

Dean doesn't need to stare back. It's been a week since the showdown in Wyoming, since Dean fucked up big time and let his little brother out of his sight long enough to get taken by the God damn Yellow Eyed Demon, and then killed (yeah, _killed_) right before his own eyes. If making that deal with that bitch in the black dress had been a mistake, Dean wasn't ready to admit it – and probably never would – because it meant Sam was alive, and however he spun that one, there just wasn't any alternative

And maybe Sam wouldn't be able to get him out of this thing. Hey, he was already trying to come to terms with that, and it was hard enough to do without watching Sam tail spinning day in and day out around here with a crazy, driven look in his eyes. Too many nights spent hunched over his laptop or memorizing Dad's journal and he was already running on empty. Dean doesn't need to stare back because he's already memorized all the pain that's on his little brother's face, and he doesn't feel too good about being the one that put it there.

It's Dean's turn to sigh, as he turns his eyes back onto the road, watching the falling sun turn the blue sky to a warmer shade of pink and orange. "I don't know about you, but I could go for some food right about now," he mutters finally, fingers tightening on the wheel.

Beside him, Sam snorts.

As civilization draws nearer, Dean takes in the first sign he sees and turns to his brother with a grin. "I think I've just found us some shelter, Kemosabe," he declares proudly, turning the wheel to the right.

Sam raises his eyebrows in incredulity. "The Cozy Cowboy Motel?" The disdain in his voice is laid on heavily as the car comes to a stop and he peers out at his surroundings.

"Hey, there's a diner and a vacancy sign. It may as well be the Ritz to me," Dean says, cutting the engine, removing the key from the ignition, and pushing the door open with a satisfying squeak. Outside, the air is hot and dry, their backdrop is bleak and covered in the same brick-colored dirt that seems to coat the entire landscape. But Dean's back gives an appreciative crack to his upright position and his legs throb with pins and needles as he walks to the trunk to retrieve their bags. "You coming, or what?" He calls to the passenger side.

Moments later, Sam is sidling up beside him. "Lead the way, Tonto."

* * *

When Dean kicks the door to their motel room shut, Sam is nowhere in sight. Dropping the grease-stained bags of food down on the ash tray-laden table top along with his keys and coat, he relaxes when the sound of the pipes shutting off with a wail bring his attention to the closed bathroom door and the billowing steam from beneath the crack.

Dean feels like he should laugh at himself for his own jumpiness, worrying like a freakin' mother hen, but truthfully, nothing is the same since he let Sam go into that roadside diner alone, and not come back out.

By the time Sam comes exits the bathroom in sweats and a t-shirt, Dean is sprawled on the bed closest to the door with Styrofoam containers of food laid out before him like a feast. "I got grub," Dean says needlessly.

Sam wrinkles his nose as he approaches. "I thought I smelled my arteries clogging."

Ignoring him, Dean nudges one of the burgers in his brother's direction. "Here." Purposely, Dean focuses his undivided attention on the hideous boot and spur print on the bedspread beneath his leg.

"I asked you to get me a salad," says Sam, looking from his food to his big brother, eyeing both with disappointment and mild disgust.

Dean offers a shrug, digging into his own cheeseburger. "They were out."

Sam's eyebrows disappear up into his bangs. "They were out of _salad?_" he asks lowly, and the shower clearly hasn't done the wonders for his mood that Dean had been hoping for.

"So I talked to the waitress a bit," Dean jumps in quickly. "And it turns out that her brother is a patient at this Eastern New Mexico Medical Center. She says he's always seeing weird stuff over there, and not always at night." To his delight, he watches as Sam reluctantly bites into his food. Mission accomplished.

His expression, however, is still skeptical. "Define 'weird stuff'."

"Well, for starters, he says he's seen this old woman's spirit first hand three times, once even in his own room." Sam looks like he wants to protest or butt in somehow, most likely about how they have no proof yet that it is, in fact, a spirit, but Dean plows on so he doesn't get the chance. "Plus, Nancy – that's the hot waitress – she says that sometimes if the hallways are really quiet, you can hear this weird chanting in parts of the hospital. Spooky stuff," he says, filling his mouth with another bite of beef.

Sam's face is the picture of doubt. "Ghosts in the middle of the day, man?" he asks dubiously.

Dean wipes grease from the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand and tries really hard to not think about smacking that negative look right off his brother's bitchy face. "Hey, wouldn't be the first time," he says, and feels a flare at anger when Sam has the nerve to shake his head and give a little exasperated chuckle at his expense. "Okay, so chanting? Owls? Maybe it's a witch."

That makes Sam laugh even harder, the smug bastard. "This isn't Harry Potter, Dean!" He exclaims as he gets to his feet, his dinner now forgotten on the bed.

Dean decides to join him. "What the hell is your problem?" he demands angrily, pushing to his feet and staring up into his little brothers face, wishing not for the first time that he wasn't such a damn giant.

"My problem is that you're grasping at straws here, man. You did the same thing in Oklahoma," he says, and gestures blindly around the room, and that wild look Dean has become unwillingly accustomed to is back. "It's like you don't even care that you're just wasting our time with this."

At least he finally said it. "You mean wasting _my _time, right Sam?" Dean demands, and instantly wishes he hadn't when Sam looks down at his sock-covered feet like he's just been slapped.

"Well…yeah," says Sam, and does a damn good impression of his ten-year-old self when he refuses to meet his big brother's eyes.

A sad smile twists Dean's mouth as he reaches up to lay a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder, and he feels the muscle tighten under the layers of cloth. "Come on, man. We're not going to be here that long." He says it like an offering, because really, what else is he supposed to say? "Then we can get back on the road and go to Bobby's, if that's what you want…"

"He didn't know anything that could help us when we left." Sam interrupts darkly, his gaze finally lifting from the carpet.

At that point, Dean was willing to say just about anything to get rid of the hopeless look on his little brother's face. "Yeah, but, I mean it's been a few days, maybe…"

Sam's arm flies up suddenly to tear Dean's hand from his shoulder, dark eyes flashing dangerously as he takes a step back, leaving a foot of space between them that may as well have been miles. "Maybe we shouldn't be lying around in the middle of Nowhere, New Mexico when we could be looking for something that could actually help you," he shouts, and the abrupt change in his demeanor is enough to make Dean flinch in surprise.

He doesn't want to say it, because of course, he's only human, and he doesn't want it to be true. But one little part of him knows it, so Dean can't help himself as the words wrench themselves from somewhere deep in his chest and escape from his mouth. "Sam, there might not _be_ a way to help me. And I can't even help you look."

His brother's response to this revelation is to snatch up the remains of his dinner and toss it angrily into a nearby garbage can. "I know that," Sam mutters, but it's hard to hear because his back is turned. "It's only been one week, Dean."

So help him, he has to try really hard not to laugh at that, because hearing Sam put an _only_ in front of that _one week_ is definitely a new occurrence. "No leads, Sam. Nothing in Dad's journal…"

Sam turns around to look at him and Dean feels his breath catch in his throat at the utter sadness in his eyes. "Then maybe I'm not looking hard enough," He mumbles, and with that said he delves into their luggage and retrieves his laptop, laying it down on the table with a smack that can't be at all good for whatever the hell is inside.

As he watches his brother seat himself in front of his computer, Dean rakes a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling exhausted. "You know that's not what I meant, Sam," he mutters, and moves the rest of his dinner into the garbage as well.

To his relief, Sam actually sighs, but doesn't turn around. "I know."

Winchesters don't really do apologies, and that's about as close as they ever come to one. So Dean decides to take it, for now, and kicks off his boots before flopping down onto his bed in a heap, nearly impaling himself on a steer-horned-lamp on the way. Once he's located the remote control, and the sound of Sam's steady tapping away at the keyboard lulls him somewhere closer to a doze, Dean lets his eyes wander from the screen to his brother's hunched back. "Don't stay up too late. We're hitting up that hospital bright and early tomorrow morning," he warns half-heartedly, because like Sam ever actually listens to him, anyway.

It's worth it, however, to see Sam's shoulders slump slightly and hear the barest of amusement in his voice when he replies, "Yes, _mother._"

* * *

Day 9

A bell above the doorway rings obnoxiously as they shove inside the diner, alerting the few customers seated at various tables of their presence. Heads lift from plates stacked with waffles and cups of coffee, curious eyes peering at them from beneath wide-brimmed cowboy hats. Clearing his throat, Dean decides it would be best to cut the angry rant he had been in the middle of short – for the time being.

Once they've settled into a booth and Sam is hiding from him behind a wide, faded menu, Dean lets his voice sink to a low, grating reprimand. "Did you think I was being cute last night when I told you to go to bed?"

Sam mostly ignores him. "When are you ever cute?" He asks indifferently.

"Sam, I'm being serious, here," Dean snarls, reaching up to yank a corner of the peeling plastic away from his brother's face. "I know this situation sucks – _believe _me – I know. But I didn't exactly expect to wake up to you drooling all over your keyboard. For the third morning in a row, I might add. This has got to stop." He can hear that note of pleading in his voice, but he really doesn't think he cares. Much.

Sam has the nerve to shrug at him. "I have to make up for what I can't get done during the day somehow," he rationalizes, laying his menu down flat on the table and staring his brother down, but the fierce persistence is less effective when weighed down by the blatant fatigue in his expression.

Rolling his eyes, Dean glares down at his own menu. "Yeah, well, you have to _sleep_ somehow, too."

Dean doesn't bother to look up when Sam huffily fiddles with his coffee cup and saucer, muttering, "I _did _sleep some," under his breath.

"I know. I can still see the imprints of an 'd', 'e', and a 'w' on your cheek," Dean snorts, smiling widely as the pretty blonde waitress with the short skirt and fantastic rack from last night spots him across the room and makes her way over with a wave. "Looks like you were trying to spell out 'dweeb'."

"Well, look who's back again!" Nancy greets in her high-pitched twitter as she whips out a notepad and a pen from her apron.

Dean does his best to dole out the charm as thickly as possible at such an early morning hour. "Sam here is just dying to try out those blueberry pancakes you were telling me about yesterday."

Nancy smiles toothily at his brother, who is glaring across the table and still rubbing self-consciously at his face "No problem, and for yourself, Sugar?" she asks next, turning her attention back to Dean with a flutter curled eyelashes.

Dean orders the greasiest thing on the menu and tells her to keep the coffee coming. When she's gone, he feels Sam 'accidentally' kick him under the table. "_That's _your source from last night?" he snorts in disbelief. "Dean, she would have told you she's seen the Ogopogo if it kept you flirting with her."

"Don't judge a book by its cover, Sammy," Dean advises, folding his hands on the table in front of himself. "Just because she has the hots for me doesn't mean the information she was giving me wasn't the honest to goodness truth," he says matter-of-factly.

Sam shakes his head. "Yeah, well, there was an article printed in the local paper here claiming the chanting she told you about is really singing – and it isn't in English. They don't now what language it is," he explains factually.

Dean doesn't try to hide the smile that creeps up onto his face as he reaches across the table to slap his little brother's arm. "Hey! Look who's decided to jump on the band wagon," he says glibly. "Nice of you to join me on the case, Sammy. Welcome. You do this research last night?" he asks the last part seriously.

"Yeah," Sam mumbles, and lowers his gaze, as if he's ashamed. "I wasn't really getting anywhere with…you know…" he trials off, his voice low and dejected.

Just as Dean is opening his mouth to fill the silence with something – anything – Nancy bounces back up to the table with a steaming pot of coffee. "Made it fresh for you boys," she tells them proudly, giving Dean a wink.

Dean grins at her widely. "So, Nancy, to what do I own this honor?" He asks cheekily. "You waiting on me two days in a row, I feel like I'm getting a little spoiled, here." From his peripheral vision, he sees Sam roll his eyes.

"You're just lucky, I guess," says Nancy, smiling sweetly, but something sad and secret crosses over her bright features. "I've been picking up some extra shifts these days to help out my brother."

And suddenly, it's Sam who has turned on the charm, his brown eyes gone wide and caring as he stares up at their waitress. "I heard that he's in the hospital," he asks, and Dean is still amazed at how he can look and sound genuinely concerned at the flip of a switch. "Do you mind if I ask what happened to him?" he asks gently.

Of course, with that puppy-dog expression, she doesn't. "He was diagnosed with cancer a few months ago," she says, her voice soft.

Sam's mouth pulls into a sympathetic frown. "I'm sorry," it's said so quietly, Dean can barely hear him. He realizes it's meant for Nancy's ears only.

Nancy goes quiet, as she brings a hand up to her forehead and rubs at the wrinkles that have formed there, almost like she's willing herself not to get too upset. "You know, it's the darndest thing, too," she starts, and Dean wonders how he never saw this about her last night, because it's just so _apparent _now. "He went into the hospital for a broken wrist. The next thing I know, he's havin' headaches and they're getting MRI's done and whatnot…suddenly he's got a brain tumor." Her lower lip trembles slightly.

Dean watches as Sam slowly lifts a hand and places it warmly on her forearm. "It must have been hard…happening so sudden like that."

"It really was, too," Nancy admits, her eyebrows knitting together, like she's realizing it for the first time. "Bill was always healthy as a horse, you know? Went and busted his arm wrestlin' steers. Hardly ever was sick, and sure didn't complain about his head…well, not until now, anyways." She stops herself there and brushes her long bangs out of her eyes uncomfortably, like she's trying to bring herself out of the trance that is Sam's eyes, Sam's sympathetic voice, Sam's reassuring touch on her wrist. "Your friend here was tellin' me that you two just started work there? At the hospital?" she says, gesturing to Dean.

Before Sam can look too caught off guard, Dean jumps in. "Yeah, we're nursing students. Just started this week," he explains, exchanging a quick glance with his brother. "We've just heard so many weird stories about, uh, crazy things like ghosts and owls and stuff. We're starting to get a little bit worried." He makes a face of false unease.

"Well I don't know about owls, but I've heard some strange stuff, alright," Nancy says knowingly, her slender shoulders giving a slight shudder. "Like I was tellin' you last night, my brother has seen that ghost everyone talks about with his own two eyes, right there in his hospital room."

"And when was that, uh, Nancy?" Sam cuts in, playing up the doe-eyes even further.

Nancy seems to think about it for a moment, fiddling with one of her hoop earrings before raising and lowering one shoulder. "I think the first time was around the time he was first admitted. For the arm, I mean," she says, and then gives her ponytail a shake. "Well, I'd say I've just about talked your ears off, boys. I'm gonna go see if your orders are up," she jerks a thumb in the direction of the kitchen, and makes a hasty retreat.

Dean barely has a chance to take a sip of his already cooling cup of coffee before Sam is fixing him with an offended look. "You couldn't have said interns? Or even orderlies?" He demands testily.

"What?" Dean asks, forehead wrinkling in confusion.

Sam gives his head a shake. "You told her that we're _nurses_, Dean," he mutters under his breath, leaning back into the booth, exasperated. "You've been watching way too much porn."

Dean smirks. "No such thing, Sammy," he says, and pastes his sickeningly pleasant smile back on as Nancy returns to their table with plates full of steaming food.

* * *

Glancing sideways at his brother, Dean can't help the grin that creeps up onto his face. "You know, burgundy is really your color, Sammy," he chuckles, giving the younger man an assessing look and the thumbs up sign. "Helps to bring out your eyes."

Sam punches him in the arm. "Shut up," he snaps, fidgeting with the hem of his hospital scrubs as they duck as inconspicuously as possible out of the linen closet they had taken refuge in. "This was your idea, Dean," he growls, and looks down at his ID card for the fifth time in dismay.

"Yeah, and it's brilliant," says Dean, scoffing slightly. "Besides, Jay Silverheels is a perfectly respectable name…"

Reaching out to press an arm across Dean's chest, Sam stops them in the middle of the hallway. "You're getting way too into this cowboy crap, Dean." He takes a calming breath and rolls his eyes skyward. "So what's the rest of the plan, anyway? We got in here, now what, we're just going to wait for Casper to find us?"

Dean shoots his brother a glare. "You, Nurse Cranky Pants, are going to mingle with the other employees in this joint. See if someone knows anything about what's been going on around here. Maybe an angry doctor that died, a crazy patient…who knows," he explains, absently pulling on the stolen stethoscope looped haphazardly around his neck.

When Dean starts walking down the hall again, Sam's hand shoots out to snag on his sleeve. "What if someone tells me to perform some kind of procedure, Dean?" he demands anxiously.

Dean thinks about that for a moment or two, and then shrugs. "Run," he says, and breaks into a grin at Sam's look of combined fear and horror. Then he wrenches the cloth of his scrubs free from Sam's grip and spins on his heel, continuing down the corridor. "If you need me, I'll be hunting down Nancy's brother," he tosses over his shoulder, and turns a corner.

It doesn't take long – or even a map of the hospital – to find the oncology wing. When he gets nearer to hunks of plywood and drywall, hammers banging in the distance, Dean worries that he's gone too far. But when an abundance of bald-headed patients begin to appear in the hallways and just within the doorways of the many rooms, Dean swallows his discomfort and keeps walking. It's almost alarming, just the sheer quantity of ill people around him, pushed in wheelchairs, seated on empty gurneys, or trailing IV poles in the wake of an agonizingly slow pace. They brush past him like ghosts themselves, all pale skin and hooded eyes and pained expressions.

An unusual feeling of shame creeps up on Dean as he reads through the names of in-patients hung outside each of the hospital rooms, but he forces himself to shake it off and act professionally. It takes awhile, but Dean finally finds a Bill Truss listed with two other roommates (Sam may be good with the sympathy part, but Dean's flirting skills had gotten him a last name to go along with the first with little difficulty), which Dean thinks is weird, because how much company do really sick people need, anyway? Surely a hospital of this size can spring for enough rooms to avoid having severely ill people jammed together. But then Dean thinks that maybe he's being a little insensitive, so he tells himself to shut up.

Dean sneaks a lunch tray from a cart down the hall, and quietly slips into Bill's room. He tries his hardest to look as though he belongs there, glancing at each of the patient's charts from the pockets at the foot of their beds, and as luck would have it, the only one awake is Bill, sitting up in his bed, gaze flicking between a muted TV screen and Dean, curiously.

"Bill, right?" Dean asks, pasting on an easy smile.

"Yeah," says the man in the bed, so Dean approaches slowly and slides the tray table closer to the patient, placing the meal serving of food on top of it. He'd been in a hospital enough times to look like he knows what he was doing.

Bill looks like Nancy, Dean thinks instantly, but his pale, thin features make something in his chest tighten, so he tries not to look longer than he has to. "Today's menu is a sandwich…which looks like bologna, but it's a tough call." Dean removes the plastic covering with a grimace. "And for dessert, what else? Jello. And as if things could get any worse, it's green."

The man's nose crinkles in amusement and distaste. "I don't mind the green," he says mildly. "Aren't you a little early?" he asks, looking up at Dean quizzically.

"Sorry," Dean apologizes meekly, raising one hand. "I'm new."

Bill snorts, picking up a fork and poking unenthusiastically at a limp piece of lettuce. "Yeah, I can tell," he says, but not unkindly. Even as sick as he looks, his eyes sparkle and smile pleasantly, and doesn't that just suck all the more? Because at least if the guy was a complete asshole, Dean could try to pretend that this was the universe's fucked up way of evening the score.

"So who did you piss off to get stuck with the bald squad?"

Dean blinks, realizing he wasn't paying attention, and feeling stupid. "Huh?" Oh, so much better.

Bill raises pale eyebrows at him. "Oncology is like, bottom of the food chain around here," he explains, obviously taking delight in Dean's confusion. "You must have done something wrong to get stuck on vomit-cleaning duty." Then the corners of his mouth quirk up, like he's letting Dean in on a secret of the trade. "That's what it's called when you're looking after the post-chemo patients, like me and my boys, here," he tells him, nodding to the sleeping occupants of the room.

Suddenly, Dean is really starting to have second thoughts about this so-called brilliant idea of his. "Uhh…" He really wished Sam was here to do this part.

Bill's face breaks out into a mischievous grin and he waves a weak hand at Dean's concern. "I'm just messin' with you, buddy," he assures quickly. "I ain't blind…what, with all the sick people around here these days, its no wonder they've hired so many lackeys to look after us. No offense."

Dean can smile at that. "None taken." He finds a chair that had been pushed up against the wall, and brings it to the side of the bed, taking a seat. "So it's not just me, then? I mean, this place is filled to the max, it seems. How normal can that be?" he asks, hoping that he isn't pushing anything too far too quickly.

However, Bill lets out an easy laugh. "Well, first you have to understand that here in Roswell, we have whole different definition of 'normal'," he explains, giving his head a shake. "I mean, how many places in the world can try to blame a sudden cancer endemic on a UFO crash from fifty years ago?"

"Seriously?" Dean asks, his eyes widening.

"Not officially, no. But there are a lot of alien freaks out there pointing their fingers at the government," Bill says, and raises a hand in a swiping motion that leads Dean to believe that he is not among the alleged 'freaks'. "Something to do with radiation and whatnot. Whatever it is, it got 'the man' to reach into his pockets and throw some money at the hospital."

Dean raises his eyebrows in interest. "So that's what all that construction is?"

Bill nods. "You got it - adding on to this wing. Gotta find somewhere to stash all us Ghandi look-alikes," he jokes, and finally reaches for his sandwich, taking a tentative bite. After chewing for a moment or two, Bill grimaces and closes his eyes, replacing the food back on its plate and pushing the tray away slightly.

Wincing sympathetically, Dean places the cover back on the dish. "Not bologna?"

When Bill opens his eyes again, he's even paler, if possible. "Don't know, don't care," he sighs. "Doesn't really matter these days, if you know what I mean." It's the first time that Dean actually hears misery in his voice, and it's bone-deep.

Dean doesn't know what to say, so he settles for uncomfortable silence. Then, after a moment or two, he remembers what he came here for, and clears his throat. "So, uh, Bill, I need you to put my mind at ease here, man," he begins casually. "Tell me that all the stories I've been hearing are just tall tales and that this place isn't really haunted."

"Well, I don't know about _haunted_," Bill says, settling back in his pillows and looking at the ceiling. "But I won't lie to ya, I've seen my fair share of spookiness around here. Even ghosts." He looks proud at the revelation.

"Ghosts?" Dean repeats, forcing a note of surprise and disbelief into his voice.

Bill shrugs a shoulder. "Just one ghost, actually," he corrects, giving a slight shudder. "I've seen her a few times, wandering the halls. But the first time she was right in my room in the ER, standing at the foot of my bed."

Dean leans forward in his seat. "What did she do to you?" he asks eagerly.

"Nothing, really, just stood there, staring." Bill says, fixing Dean with a set of bright blue eyes that stand out on a pale face, and it's all he needs to know that this guy isn't just yanking his chain. "She was clutching something in her hand, kind of fidgeting with it. And she was saying something, over and over again, but I couldn't really make it out because…"

"It wasn't English?" Dean jumps the gun before Bill can finish, and curses himself in his mind.

Thankfully, Bill is too into his story to look very phased. "Yeah. And at first, that didn't really strike me as odd. But I've worked as a ranch hand for most of my life, and you pick up a lot of what you hear." He shakes his head, and his eyes narrow, as if he's trying to solve the missing piece to a puzzle. "I speak Spanish, and I can understand my fair share of Navajo. But this didn't sound like neither."

Dean holds up a hand, eyebrows furrowing. "Whoa, whoa, so she was Native American?" he asks, struggling to put two and two together.

Bill nods. "Yeah," he says, and then looks confused again. "But she didn't hurt me, or nothin'. Just kept talking under her breath. Then I look away for no longer than a moment, and she's gone."

At that, Dean leans back in his seat, arms folded against his chest. Somehow, none of this fits together right. A ghost that chants like a witch but speaks in tongues and doesn't seem intent on harming anyone…well, that would definitely be a new one. Plus, not to mention, incredibly boring.

Bill interprets his silence as skepticism. "I know, I know how it sounds," he starts, looking slightly self-conscious. "And I'd totally think I'd gone insane if these guys hadn't seen her, too," he says, gesturing at his roommates.

That perks Dean's interest. "They've _all _seen the ghost?"

"Spirit, ghost, whatever you wanna call it," Bill confirms. "Right in their rooms, too. And not just them. In fact, you'd be hard pressed to find someone in this department that hasn't seen it – her…whatever."

As Dean tries to wrap his mind around that, he realizes that things just got a lot more interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**Day 9**

It's nearly an hour later when Dean hunts Sam down. He finally spots the tall mop of dark hair in a deserted corner of the hospital, near the service elevators. At first, Sam doesn't even seem to notice his older brother approaching, and Dean realizes that it's because his attention is focused on the EMF meter nestled in his large paws.

"I thought I left that thing in the car," Dean says in a way of greeting, checking over his shoulders to ensure that no one else is around.

Sam's head jerks up, but his shoulders relax once his eyes settle on the familiar face. "You did. I went back to get it once I finished mingling with the simple folk." He turns off the device with a sigh. "I'm not getting any sort of reading in this place."

Dean ignores his negativity. "So what did you learn?" he asks instead.

"Besides how to insert an IV?" replies Sam, his face deadpan.

Shaking his head, Dean narrows his eyes. "You're such a geek," he says, and seriously hopes that Sam didn't really treat the entire experience as some sort of learning annex.

Sighing, Sam shrugs his shoulders. "I'm sorry, man, but I think I was right about this one." Funnily enough, he doesn't really look all that sorry. "Everyone I talked to either thought _I _needed to be committed or denied everything as simple ghost stories. Nothing more. We can come back tonight, if you want, but I think this one is a bust, too."

"No. There's definitely something here, Sam," Dean insists, ignoring the look his little brother is giving him. "I talked to Bill, and he swears he's seen this ghost. In fact, he says almost everyone in the oncology wing has seen it. And I believe him." He stares Sam down, and waits for some sort of negative reaction, or taunting for running with a hunch.

But Sam looks undecided. "So you're thinking that maybe this spirit is appearing only to the sick?" he asks, his interest finally perked.

Okay, so maybe Dean had only been working towards that, but it sounds like a pretty good theory, so he clamps down onto it. "Exactly. I mean, it would be way too big of a coincidence, especially given just how many damn cancer patients there are," he says with a shake of his head.

A line of concentration appears between Sam's eyes. "Huh," he says quietly.

Dean looks at him. "What?"

"Nothing, just…" Sam gives his shoulders a slight shrug, and Dean can practically see the wheels turning in his head. "One of the nurses I was talking to mentioned how oncology has made some sort of breakthrough. She said that their cure rate is one of the highest in the state." He turns to Dean, as if awaiting some sort of verification.

"Well she's on crack," Dean snorts. "I've never seen so many sick people in my life, Sam, and none of them really seemed to be on the mend."

Sam appears to mull it over some more. "But…" he starts, and looks confused. "They told me that they've been seeing miracles. Just last week, a kid who was at death's door went into complete remission within a day of treatment. And it wasn't the first time, apparently."

That causes Dean to pause. "A kid?" At Sam's nod, another piece of the puzzle falls into place. "Any chance all of these medical marvels were kids?" he pries further.

Sam's eyebrows knit together. "Uh, the ones they mentioned, anyway." He stares at his older brother quizzically. "Why? Where are you going with this?"

Dean squares his shoulders and turns away from the dead-end, looking out into the empty hospital corridor. "'S funny, 'cause I didn't really notice any children while I was there." He nods for his little brother to follow him as he starts down the hall, weaving through a maze of shelves filled with procedure kits and tools, carts covered with scary-looking medical equipment.

"That's probably because they separate them to pediatrics, Dean," Sam says from behind him, hurrying to catch up to Dean's purposeful pace.

"Yep, that's where we're headed."

A few flights down the stairwell later, Dean puts on his inconspicuous persona again as he and Sam return to the mix of hospital personnel, following arrows and signs until they stand in front of a glass window. Looking into a cheerfully painted room of yellow suns decorated on sky-blue walls, Dean takes in the empty beds – all but one.

"One kid," Dean says, tearing his eyes away from the small, pale figure sleeping inside the room. "One kid with cancer out of, what, a hundred? Maybe more? You can't tell me there isn't something off about that." He turns back to peer through the glass.

Beside him, Sam sighs. "Okay, yeah," he admits quietly, peering around nervously even though they're in a remote area. "But Dean, I don't see what any of this has to do with us."

An unfamiliar voice replies before Dean has a chance to, and it nearly makes him jump out of his skin. "Absolutely nothing." It's gravelly, and it's female, and Dean allows himself one guess as to who it belongs to.

He and Sam whirl around to reveal a woman standing a few feet behind them – the 'ghost', in all her glory. Except once Dean gets a good look at her, that theory is just about dashed all to hell. Because sure, she looks a bit creepy (anyone who appears behind you soundlessly like that is a little off their rocker), staring at them with hard, cold, shadowy eyes, shrouded in long dark clothes, but she's definitely corporal, as Sam would say, and she's not floating or transparent or any of the usual clichés.

Hesitantly, Dean takes a step toward her, and she eyes him like an insect that needs to be squashed. "You're not dead," he says stupidly, but still must refrain from reaching out to yank on one of her long grey braids, just to be sure.

"No," says the woman, as if this is just a run of the mill question for her.

Sam seems to recover from his initial shock, stepping up beside his brother. "So you just let everyone around here think you're a ghost?"

She makes a motion somewhere between shrugging and bristling. "People believe what they want to believe." Her voice is heavy with some unknown accent, and it dawns on Dean that that doesn't actually fit the profile he'd had going.

"You speak English."

The woman stares at him coolly. "So do you, boy."

Sam shoots him a look that says 'shut up', to which Dean shrugs helplessly. "Do you work here?" Sam asks, and okay, maybe asking questions is a better route than stating the obvious, but Dean hadn't really gotten past the 'not dead' part yet.

"No," she says, and her eyes flit between the two brothers silently, as if she's reading them like open books. "But neither do you."

Dean decides to side-step that issue for the time being. "If you don't work here, then why freak people out for kicks?" he asks, but Sam elbows him in the side as a warning to tone it down a notch. Dean relents. "Are you visiting someone? A patient, maybe?"

Something brief flickers across her lined face. "Yes." Her hands reach for the corners of her shawl, drawing it tightly around her shoulders. "I'm a medicine woman. I'm here to help everyone."

"So is that what you were doing in Bill Truss's hospital room? _Helping _him?" Dean asks doubtfully. "That's what your little spells and owls and junk do?"

Sam looks at him nervously. "Dean," he warns, inching towards him.

The woman's eyes move between them some more, slowly, and rest for a moment on Sam, just long enough for the hairs on the back of Dean's neck to stand on end. Then her steely gaze settles back on Dean. "Ambitious accusations for two men who do what you do," she says quietly.

"How do you…?" Dean starts, surprised.

"I can smell death on both of you." She takes a step towards Sam, and automatically Dean's arm reaches out, pressing a hand to his little brother's chest, pushing him back a step behind him. "But you," she stares at Sam, "on you it is fresh."

Dean moves to stand directly in front of her, forcing the woman to tear her gaze from Sam and face him, instead. "Okay, step off, lady."

Something resembling anger flickers across her inky eyes, and a mask falls in place as she stops short, squaring her shoulders. "You should leave." She says brusquely, and steps to the side, staring through the glass at the sick little girl in the hospital room

Dean pastes on his widest smile. "Leave? But we just got here!" he leers, and watches as the woman ignores him, instead staring blankly at the figure in the bed. Something about _that _does not sit too well with Dean. "Tell you what, Dr. Quinn. We'll leave if you leave."

"My name is Shimi," says the woman, "and you've made a mistake in coming here. You need to leave." She repeats it, and it's just as eerie the second go-round.

Sam's hand appears at Dean's arm. "Come on, Dean," Sam is saying, but his eyes are still fixed on Shimi. "Let's just go."

Dean wants to protest, because no way in hell is some freaky old broad gonna tell him what to do, but Sam's pulling is insistent, and it's not like his brother to just stand down for no reason, so Dean lets himself be lead away. Shimi watches them go with a mild expression, and Dean doesn't really give a crap if she's a ghost or not – something about her scares the crap out of him.

It's not until they're outside the hospital lobby, almost at the sidewalk where they've parked the car, that Dean whirls around to level Sam with a sharp look. "What's the matter with you?" he demands.

He doesn't need to repeat himself, or explain, because Sam glares at him defiantly. "She's right, Dean, we had no business being there." He turns his back to and starts walking towards the Impala.

Dean grabs his arm to stop him. "What?" he demands, squinting into the sunlight.

Sam turns back to face him, arms spread wide in a discouraged gesture. "She's a medicine woman. A shaman. They heal people," he says seriously. "And she's right, we have no reason to be here."

"So you just take her word for it? If I told you I was really a fire hydrant, you'd buy that?" Dean ignores his brother's expression of blatant annoyance, nudging his shoulder to keep his attention. "If she's there to heal them, why do so many people have cancer, Sam?" he asks, lifting his eyebrows in scrutiny.

Looking around at the passersby, some of whom shoot them curious looks, Sam wordlessly spins them in the direction of the car. Once they're safely inside, he turns back with a frustrated glare. "Why are you pushing this so hard?" he demands.

"Because something isn't right." Dean brings his hands down heavily on the steering wheel, staring out the windshield into the busy street. After a moment or two, he begins to realize what a Thanksgiving turkey must feel like, and rolls down the window, all the while ignoring Sam's intense stare. "It's too weird, dude. I don't trust her as far as I can throw her. And she can't be too heavy, so that's probably a fair distance."

Sam sighs, and closes his eyes for a brief moment of relent. "Okay. But tell me what any of this has to do with us. I mean, if she's not a ghost, man, we can't exactly salt and burn this one. She hasn't really done anything wrong," he protests cynically.

"That we know of," Dean persists.

The look Sam is giving him resembles one that would require Dean to grow a second head. "Let me guess. You think she has something to do with the cancer outbreak?" he suggests hesitantly.

"Witches…"

"She's a shaman," Sam interrupts insolently.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Potato, potahto. Look, they use magic, right? Chant, cast spells, whatever." He looks to Sam for confirmation, who nods his head reluctantly. "So then she's just as capable of using black magic. If she can heal people, she can probably cause them harm, too. Maybe what we're dealing with isn't an outbreak at all. I mean, you admitted it yourself, that it was weird how all the kids were getting better faster than they could treat them but everyone else is just getting worse."

Towards the end of his speech, Sam's eyes have grown wide. "So what you're saying is that you think she's curing the kids' cancer to use it on the adults?" Dean detects the hint of amusement in his voice a second before Sam's mouth quirks up in a peevish grin.

"No – I mean _transferring_ it," Dean explains hurriedly, but Sam still gives a huff of disbelief. "Think about it, Sam. What if she can't cure the cancer, she can only give it to someone else? I mean it makes sense, doesn't it? The whole, 'matter cannot be created or destroyed' thing…maybe she can't get rid of it, so she just…relocates it."

Sam has gone quiet, but at least he's not looking at him like he's crazy anymore. When he does finally say something, it's not what Dean expected. "I can't believe you know the properties of matter." He mutters teasingly.

"Sam," Dean warns.

"Okay, okay. I guess it makes sense." Sam relents, throwing up his hands in defeat.

Dean nods, relieved. "Okay. So what are we going to do?" He asks next, shifting in his seat to give his brother his full attention.

Sam squints at him. "_Do_?" he parrots.

Astonishment coils tightly in his stomach. "The woman is killing innocent people, here," he shouts, the sound reverberating in the small, cramped space of the front seat. "Are you suggesting we just let her keep doing it?"

"What do you propose we do, Dean? Tell a doctor that we're suspicious of a woman formerly known as the hospital poltergeist stealing cancer from children and giving it to grown-ups?" Sam demands sarcastically. Then he quiets. "And she isn't killing people." He mutters petulantly.

Dean isn't really sure he heard him correctly. "She's taking healthy people and giving them a fatal disease," he reiterates heatedly. "Sounds like killing to me." He finds his key and jams it into the ignition.

"She's saving children, Dean." Sam says quietly beside him. "Maybe…maybe we should just let it be."

His hands stop dead as he turns to stare at the younger man disbelievingly. "Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?" Dean demands, only half-joking, but Sam just looks back at him tiredly for a moment before turning his attention away to stare despondently out the window. Dean shakes off the feeling of unease and agitation, letting it roll off his shoulders for the time being, and starts the car, pulling it out onto the dusty road.

* * *

When Dean returns to the hotel room, arms laden with bags of diner food, it feels a little bit like déjà vu. Except once he unlocks the door with their rental key and steps inside, Sam isn't in the shower, but hunched in front of the screen of his laptop, just as Dean had left him.

As soon as Sam sees him, his fingers fly to the mouse, minimizing one of the windows and looking up at his older brother furtively. "Hey," he says, leaning back in his chair.

Dean pauses in the doorway, looking between the computer and his brother's guilty face before grinning easily. "Such a hypocrite, Sammy." He mumbles under his breath, shutting the door and ambling to his bed.

"What?" Sam questions, forehead crinkled in confusion.

"And you say _I _watch too much porn," Dean smirks, opening a Styrofoam box of chicken, inhaling the heavenly aroma appreciatively.

Sam stares at him for a moment longer before realization dawns on his face almost comically, and he blushes. "What? No, I wasn't…" he trails off and grimaces in embarrassment. "Never mind." He reaches past his brother for plastic utensils.

Not even trying to smother a few chuckles at the younger man's expense, Dean focuses on loading his own plate with food. "So in between being a pervert, did you find anything out on ol' Pocahontas?" he asks, and shovels a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

Sam's response to both the insulting comment and the racial slur is a prudent glare. "_Shimi_ didn't show up in any of the usual databases. But that could be because she gave us her tribal name instead of her legal one," he says, and leans back towards the computer to pull up a screen of text. "I did some searches on Navajo medicine elders, though. Apparently they call themselves Hatalii. They believe the source of their magic comes from animal spirits, and nature."

Dean nods along. "Which would explain the owl. Go on," he urges.

"When performing a healing ritual, they usually use things from the environment," Sam recites while he eats, as if all of this information is already committed to memory. Which, freakishly enough, it probably is. "Like a crystal rock, or herbs. Then they go into a sort of trance, typically with hand-trembling and some sort of a therapeutic chant."

Dean pauses. "Bill mentioned that he speaks some Navajo, but that he didn't understand any of what she was saying," he relays helpfully.

With a shrug, Sam closes the computer for the time being. "Well, maybe the origins of these spells are really ancient…we have no idea what kind of dialect she's using," he rationalizes.

"I guess," Dean concedes. "Anything else?" he asks, expression hopeful.

Sam raises and lowers one shoulder. "Just that the name Shimi means 'mother' in Navajo," he says, and then exhales loudly. "But nothing on how or why she'd be doing any of this…historically, Hatalii were extremely peaceful people."

"So then she's got her own agenda." Dean wipes his mouth with a napkin, balling it up and tossing it onto the bed. "We'll just have to talk some sense into her, then. And if she won't take her voodoo elsewhere, we've got plenty of means to convince her." He waggles his eyebrows, and nods to their weapons bag by the door.

Sam looks at him for a moment, and he's got that same look on his face he had in the Impala – conflict and resistance – before he glances away, ducking his head and hiding under long bangs.

Groaning, Dean sets down his food and faces his little brother irritably. "Okay, Sam, I'll bite," he says tersely. "What's wrong?"

Pushing his own plate aside, Sam sighs again. "I just don't know if this is really a job for us, man," he says simply, but seems uncomfortable meeting Dean's eyes.

"So you think it would be handled better by someone else, then? Maybe the local authorities – or hell, how about all those oncologists over at the hospital that think they've struck gold with a cancer cure that doesn't actually work?" Dean asks mockingly, and then shakes his head. "Witches are our kind of thing, Sam. Nothing's changed."

Sam glowers at him. "Except she's not a witch!" he exclaims pointedly.

Dean rises from the bed, snatching up his keys and jacket on the way. "She casts spells and curses people. She's a witch." He turns his back and heads for the door. "And I'm not having this conversation with you anymore."

Sam stares after him. "Where are you going?" he questions, a note of anxiety in his voice, and yet he makes no move to rise from his seat.

"You're obviously not going to help me with this one," Dean says, turning back around to give his little brother a weak, humorless grin. "May as well get it over with now so we can get back on the road. Find some people we can save that are actually worthwhile to you." He knows that was cold, but really, he doesn't care all that much at the moment.

At least it brings Sam to his feet. "It's like you said, Dean. Nothing is being created or destroyed. Shimi isn't healing, but it's not like she's putting a pox on anyone, either." He stares Dean down, a solemn look in his eyes. "She's saving those little kids' lives."

Dean pauses in the doorway, letting a stream of hazy evening sunlight flow across the dingy brown carpet of the motel room. "And the cost to the people she's hurting is, what, insignificant?" He asks softly, unwilling to believe that this is really where Sam stands. "Bill and Nancy, you don't think anything is being destroyed there? While she watches her brother die from disease that isn't even his?"

Sam's eyes fall and his shoulders slump dejectedly. "That's not what I mean." His voice is a near-whisper. "I just think that…I don't know, we should let nature run its course," he says, sounding embarrassed.

"That," Dean scoffs, pointing sightlessly out the door, "is not natural."

Sam's head snaps up at lightning speed, eyes flashing angrily. "And what you did for me was?" he shouts in reply, back heaving.

It only takes a split second for Dean to realize exactly what his little brother means, and when he does, his face slackens as he stares back into the dark, accusatory eyes. "I'm not doing this right now," he says quietly, fingers sliding restlessly over the keys in his pocket. Eventually, he has to avert his gaze from Sam's to preserve any sense of calm whatsoever. "I'll be back in a little while."

With the door shut, Dean takes a couple deep breaths of warm, dry desert air before walking quickly to the car. In the familiar comfort of the black leather seats, he lets his head fall forward to rest on the wheel, willing his composure to remain intact. After awhile he starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot, but not before glancing through the window of their motel room, where he can just make out Sam's slumped figure sitting on the bed, his head in his hands.

* * *

Thankfully, the halls of the hospital were a lot quieter in the evening, and Dean found that he could slip around relatively unnoticed even without the aid of their nurse disguise. But once he'd made it back to the pediatrics wing, to the spot where they'd seen Shimi earlier that day, Dean really wished he'd thought this through more carefully. 

He really had no idea when and where Shimi would show up again, if he were even that lucky. If he was being honest with himself, he knew the only reason he was here was to escape the overwhelming tension back at the motel, and Sam with his penetrating gaze.

But as he found himself standing once again in front of the viewing window, looking in on the same sick little girl from that morning, Dean had to blink a few times to make sure he wasn't seeing things. But sure enough, the girl wasn't the only one in the room. Even in the dim light inside, Dean could make out Shimi's hunched shape over the bed, her bony fingers stroking the child's cheek.

Dean had the door to the room open before he even knew what he was doing, closing it quietly behind him, but it was enough to alert the woman to his presence, as she looked up, slightly startled. "I told you to leave," she says quietly, and its then that Dean realizes that the little girl is fast asleep.

"Right back at you, sister." Dean sneers in a near-whisper, cautiously approaching the bed. With the overhead lights turned off, the only illumination comes from the hallway window, but Dean can see the young patient is resting peacefully, her small, pale features softened in slumber.

Shimi stares at him across the short distance. "I don't understand." Her hands wring twitchily in front of her. "You've already come to the conclusion that I'm not here to hurt her," she says, nodding to the child.

"Quit with the whole mind-whammy thing," Dean snarls impatiently. "My brother and I know what you've been doing. How you've made all those other people sick."

Her face goes eerily still. "Your brother…" she pauses, and her head tilts quizzically to the side, like a bird. "He disagrees with you on this matter? He does not follow you in your quest to destroy the work I've done, saving these children?" Now she's stepping away from the bed, closer to Dean.

Demons, vengeful spirits, shapeshifters…all of that he can handle, but as this woman advances towards him, Dean has to fight the urge to take a step back. "Trading innocent people's lives for theirs isn't saving anyone," he gulps, struggling to remain composed as she peers at him in the darkness.

"No," Shimi says, her hands continuing to fidget. "Innocence? True innocence? That is what these children are. A blessing. Their spirits are too new to be taken. That is why they must be preserved."

Dean blinks at her. "_Preserved_? They aren't pickles, lady." he clenches his hands into fists, the cold metal of the gun at his back settling some of his frayed nerves. Old woman or not, if she makes one sly move, she's going down.

"Youth takes precedence over all else, boy," she says gravely, eyes shifting to settle on the little girl, longingly. "The cure is…unfortunate, but necessary. A blessing must be protected, even if nature fails to do so on its own." As a wave of something mysterious and poignant crosses over her lined face, Shimi's eyes move to rest on Dean once more.

"Necessary?" Dean repeats, shaking his head. "Who are you to decide who lives and who dies? What gives you the right to save one person just to strike down another?" he demands, struggling to lower his voice before that little girl wakes up and reacts badly to the two shady strangers having an ethical debate at the foot of her bed.

Shimi falls unsettlingly silent, and Dean gulps as her eyes flit across his face. Just as a chill creeps up his spine, she finally speaks again. "And who are _you_, then?" she says, her voice dropping to a jagged whisper.

Dean's breath catches in his chest. "What?" he asks apprehensively.

"I know things, boy, and I know what you did," she says, and this time, when she takes a step towards him, Dean does take a step back. "You may have brought your brother back, but at what cost? You think the sacrifice you've made is selfless? That what you did to save him was any better than what I've done for these children?"

A cold sweat breaks out between Dean's shoulder blades, but he refuses to let the shock and alarm register on his face. "You don't know what you're talking about," he stammers.

Shimi shakes her head. "No, boy. I do." Her eyes become wide and sad, and up close, Dean realizes that the wrinkles on her face are deep lines of pain and hurt, and the woman underneath is younger than she looks. "I know that what you've done to your brother is a fate far more painful than his own passing."

Dean stares at her in bewilderment. "What do you mean?" he asks, even though deep down he knows that this is a question he does not want the answer to.

"You don't understand. You may have seen your brother die," she says darkly, eyes scanning his face. "But it happened quickly, didn't it? No, not like he'll have to watch yours, slowly, knowing that there's nothing in his power he can do to stop it. And he will, boy. Just because you were too selfish to let him go when it was his time. _Now_, he'll suffer." She shakes her head and her braids sway, mournfully.

"No he won't!" Dean replies gutturally, the voice wrenched painfully from somewhere deep inside. Realizing how close he is to totally losing his cool, Dean takes a deep breath. "No. Sam won't," he repeats, and recognizes too late that he's spoken his brother's name, and why did he do that, exactly? The last thing he wants is to feed into this woman's psychosis.

And for whatever the reason, Shimi looks pleased. "Sam," she repeats, as if testing it on her own tongue. "You know nothing about the agony of watching a loved one die in that way. Because of you, Sam will." She says, and even though she says nothing after that, Dean can sense an unspoken 'as I did' hanging in the air after it.

Dean shakes his head vehemently. "No." He's got no farther to go, literally having backed himself up into a wall, but the depths of Shimi's eyes give him the urge to escape this room as soon as possible. "Sam is…Sam is strong. He's stronger than me," he falters, the words tumbling from his mouth faster than he can hold them in. And he doesn't know where any of this is coming from, really, but it doesn't matter, because he'll say just about anything at this point to make her _shut the hell up_.

And then, something silent and wicked passes over her face in the shadows, and Dean swears he sees a ghost of a smile tough her lips for the briefest moment. "I hope so. For your sake, I hope so." And just as Dean is struggling to figure out what the hell that was supposed to mean, Shimi is backing away from him, floating over to the bed in a silent rustle of her long skirts.

Dean peels himself away from the mockingly cheerful wallpaper and regains his voice. "What are you doing?" he asks edgily.

Shimi glances at him once, and then lifts her arms parallel to the floor, her palms open in the air over the little girls head and torso. As Shimi's eyes fall closed, the room becomes deathly silent, but slowly Dean comes to realize that her lips aren't moving wordlessly, that a stream of steady syllables are escaping like a breath of air, slowly gaining strength. "Haiya naija yana, yo, yowa lana ya, na'eye lana heya 'eye."

Dean clenches his jaw tightly, taking a step away from the wall. "Stop." He demands, his voice forceful but shaking.

"Neya 'iya wo, ye Sa'ah naaghei wo, ye Bik'eh hozhoo, neya 'eye, lana heya 'eye, holaghei." Shimi continues on, as if she never even heard him.

Stepping closer to the bed, Dean swears he feels a strange fizzle of energy in the air, like just before a lightening storm. "Stop it," he repeats, daring to raise his voice as he moves to stand on the other side of the bed, staring down at the little girl whose brow has become furrowed in discomfort.

Shimi ignores him, the words coming from her mouth ceaselessly. Her left hand is clenched into a fist, her fingers moving relentlessly over something held inside, and it's then that Dean notices the large hunk of quartz she's been holding, probably this entire time. As he reaches for it, intent on wrenching it from her grip and smashing it on the floor, or flinging it out a window, _anything_ to get her to stop, an unseen spark crackles from the contact with her skin, like an electric shock, and Dean pulls his hand away as if burned.

Okay, he's just about had enough of this bullshit. Dean draws his gun from the back of his pants and points it directly at Shimi's head. "Shut the hell up!" Dean shouts, and that was just about loud enough to rouse the dead, so surely, the kid is going to wake up at that.

As suddenly as the whole thing started, Shimi's eyes pop open and her arms fall to her sides, staring fearlessly into the barrel of Dean's weapon. "As you wish, boy," she says, her voice dropped back to its grating whisper

Dean swallows uneasily, but keeps the gun steady and studies her placid, content expression. "What did you do?" he growls.

Shimi takes a step back from the bed, her hands folding calmly in front of her, a strange smile appearing in her eyes. "Nothing that won't help you," she tells him ominously.

Dean doesn't decide to spend another second trying to figure out what the hell that's supposed to mean. Instead, he jerks the gun in the direction of the door, his eyes never leaving her face. "Get out of here," he tells her finally, even though every fiber of his being is screaming at him to shoot this woman between the eyes right now and be done with it. But he doesn't, for reasons he'll wonder about later, and holds firm to his order, the venom in his voice leaving very little room for negotiation.

She gathers herself slowly, dropping the rock into one of the deep pockets of her outfit and pulling her shawl more firmly around her body. "Fine," she says quietly, and moves lithely to the door. Her hand on the knob, she turns back and looks at Dean. "Tell Sam I'm sorry."

A chunk of ice settles into the pit of Dean's gut at her words, and his finger twitches on the trigger. "What the hell for?" his voice cracks just slightly over the words he forces past his dry throat.

Her mouth twitches in a smile. "For all the pain you've created."

Dean feels his eyes burn and his bottom lip tremble, so he presses them into a firm line, and nods determinedly to the door. "Leave," he spits, and lowers his gaze finally to the little girl in the bed, the little girl whose eyes are no longer closed, but are peering up at him fearfully through heavy lids.

"Hi," Dean mumbles tentatively, and looks up to where he's had his weapon leveled, but Shimi isn't standing at the door anymore. Without so much of a creak of the handle or a squeak of the hinges, the woman has disappeared from the room, and damn it, Dean wishes she's stop doing that.

"What's going on?" the shrill, tremulous child voice asks.

Dean drops his arm to his side instantly, the gun disappearing behind his back and under the hem of his jacket. "Uh, nothing," he stumbles over words, thinking fast. "I'm just here to, um, check under all the beds for monsters. But fortunately, there are none. So you can go back to sleep."

Even though that had to be one of the stupidest things to ever come out of his mouth, the little girl, who can't be much older than six or seven, yawns and seems to accept this as a decent answer. "Oh," she says quietly, her eyes already drooping to half mast as she settles down into her pillows.

As fatigue seems to envelop her little body at an alarming rate, Dean inches closer to the bed, hovering overtop and scanning the child for injuries. "Are you okay?" he asks anxiously, because he has absolutely no idea what that old crone could have done to her.

The little girl's eyes don't open again when she answers. "Yes," she replies simply, and drifts closer to sleep. "I feel much better now."

* * *

Dean feels like an idiot, driving back to the motel with his foot gunning the accelerator. He can't really explain his sudden complete disregard for speed limits or red lights, but he's grateful that the town of Roswell seems to be a little bit lax on whole 'breaking the laws of the road' thing. 

The churning feeling of unease in his stomach doesn't go away until the sign of the Cozy Cowboy Inn has appeared through the windshield, and the Impala is turning back into its original parking spot just outside their room door. And once he's outside, he can take a deep breath of both relief and apprehension. Because while he can't really explain the release of tension he feels at being back, safe and sound, he knows that he'll now have to face the same moody, pissed-off Sam he left behind.

Stretching his shoulders, Dean kicks at the red dirt with the toe of his boot as he climbs the two stairs up to the wooden boardwalk. Through the sheer blinds of their window, he can see the lights are still on inside, and feels a wash of guilt and warmth knowing that even if it were far later than nine o'clock at night, Sam would have waited up for him.

He turns the key in the decrepit lock, and it takes some jiggling to get the damn thing to open, but once inside Dean prepares himself for a barrage of questions. He's both pleasantly surprised and instantly concerned when he's met with nothing but an alarming quiet.

"Sam?" Dean calls, but Jesus Christ, there are only so many places a giant like his brother could hide in such a small room. The laptop sitting on the table is open but the chair is vacant, and a quick scan of the beds comes up empty as well.

Light from the TV screen spills across the floor, and Dean takes a hesitant step further into the room, the feeling of dread creeping back into his gut. When he turns the corner around the last mattress, the one furthest from the door, he feels his blood run cold.

Sam is lying splayed on his back just outside the bathroom, eyes closed, long legs tangled underneath him, and it's just about enough to stop Dean's heart for the third time in his life.


	3. Chapter 3

Few things in their line of work truly _scare _Dean Winchester. Sure, it's never very comforting when something creepy jumps out of the dark, and yeah, airplanes and anything that requires flight in general he ranks about as much fun as a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. But absolutely nothing can touch the utter fear that always comes when something bad happens to Sam.

Finding said little brother collapsed on the floor of their motel room, face slack and skin pale, ranks as _really _bad in Dean's books.

Dean crashes to his knees on the carpet, the floorboards underneath giving a loud creak of protest, which he ignores. "Sam," he says the name breathlessly, hands moving aimlessly over the prone body, checking for injuries. When he fails to see any blood, his next move is to check for a pulse, and he lets out a sigh of relief when he finds a steady one.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean pleads, using the flats of his fingers to lightly pat his little brother's cheeks. "Wake up."

There are several long moments that follow, in which Dean contemplates the different tactics he could use to rouse the unconscious young man (although a cup of water on the face is messy and never elicits a very happy response). Just as he's shaking Sam's shoulders, jaw open in the midst of repeating his name, Sam's eyes flutter blearily open.

He squints up at the ceiling, recognition delayed. "Dean?" he croaks, his voice rough sounding. Slowly, he lets Dean haul him up by the elbow, leaning heavily on the side of the bed. "What's going on?" he asks next, hand coming up to scrub at his face.

"I was hoping you could tell me." Dean clears his throat, trying to get rid of the tremulous quality that hasn't quite left since finding his brother in a heap on the floor. "I walk in here and you're making snow angels on the carpet."

Sam gives his head a shake, as if trying to clear some of the cobwebs away. "I remember…you left," he admits, the last part spoken quietly, timidly. "And then I was on the computer, I guess I got up. I don't remember what happened." He lets out a shaky breath, fingers still rubbing at his forehead.

Dean studies Sam's pallor, waiting for it to take on a bit more color than the lovely shade of ashen he's got going. "Well, I do," he grumbles, masking his concern with frustration. "Your stupid giant body has finally decided it's had enough of your bullshit and wants some God damn sleep, whether you like it or not. The floor was the closest landing pad. Now get up, you're going to bed."

It's unusual to hear Sam's lack of complaint at such orders, but Dean decides that it just attests to how tired Sam must be. So without further argument, he levers Sam up into a standing position with a powerful tug of their joined hands.

When Sam wavers unsteadily on his feet, Dean's ready for it, but it still doesn't make it any less unsettling. As he's sitting him back down on the edge of the mattress, he watches as Sam closes his eyes, struggling for his bearings. He wants to say something, ask, 'are you alright?', but he doesn't, because while Sam doesn't look so good at the moment, there's no point in making an awkward situation any worse. So instead, he opts to make himself useful, pulling back the starched motel comforter and sheets, fluffing the poorly stuffed foam pillow. "Come on, lie down." He instructs.

Sam does as he's told (which in itself is extremely alarming), his motions slow and deliberate. Once he's stretched out, all ten feet of him, he just lies here, gigantic sock-covered feet nearly hanging off the end of the double bed.

Dean rolls his eyes, but can't help the affectionate smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth as he reaches down to drag the covers back over Sam's long body. "Fine. Sleep in your jeans, for all I care, Dean mutters, but Sam's eyes are already closed again.

"Thanks D'n…" comes the slurred reply, and within moments, his breathing has evened out, signaling sleep.

In the silence of the dim hotel room, Dean lets out a deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and sits down heavily on the edge of the other mattress. Dry washing his face with a calloused hand, he stares at Sam's relaxed features, half hidden by the play of shadows and unruly dark bangs.

It was alarmingly easy to forget that Sam was so young – just a kid still, really. But when he was asleep, it was as if years were erased from his entire body throughout the night. Covers that would seem far too short for such a gargantuan body were splayed and tangled every which way as Sam somehow managed to curl into an impossibly tight ball, head tucked low on the pillow. His face would relax, completely unguarded and unmarred by the usual frown and worry lines that he wore throughout the day like a security blanket. He always looked so child-like, all warm and soft, that sometimes Dean had to remind himself that he wasn't eleven years old anymore, and it wasn't exactly socially acceptable to crawl into bed and cuddle up beside his little brother like a protective cocoon.

After all, he had an image to uphold.

Gnawing on his lower lip, Dean continues to stare at Sam in the lamp glow. In the unresisting quiet, his mind wanders, and try as he might to hold it back, he finds himself wondering calmly if Sam would still look this innocent one year from now, in a motel room like this one, alone. Stomach churning, he pushes the thought aside, because as guilty as that image makes him feel, it's still leaps and bounds better than the one of him staring down at that same childlike face, slack and peaceful in death.

A familiar coldness crept over Dean's back like a wet blanket, and he shrugs it off quickly, toeing off his boots and leaning back against the headboard of his bed. Without turning down the bed, Dean slumps low into his pillows and stares at the far wall, arms crossed protectively in front of his chest. Despite what he's told Sam, he knows his conscience hasn't come out of the whole incident Scott-free. And no matter how hard he tries to push it down as far as it will go, something deep inside of Dean was starting to ache.

* * *

At precisely ten twenty-five the next morning, Dean gives up on trying to be patient. "Hey, geek boy," he says, his tone sharp but not loud as he lifts one foot to nudge at Sam's blanket-covered feet with toe of his right boot. "Up and at 'em. I let you sleep in long enough."

That was an understatement. It was unsettling in itself to wake before Sam, the usual irritatingly chipper early-riser, had even moved beneath his blankets, but after an hour or so of puttering around the motel room and Sam still hadn't shown any signs of waking, Dean had left in search of coffee and a quick flirt with Nancy. Now, back in the darkness of the musty motel room, some girly whipped latte-whatever in hand, Sam still looks dead to the world.

The Sam-shaped lump in the blankets gives a croaky moan, drawing his legs in protectively.

"Come on, Sammy, this syrupy shit you refer to as coffee is getting cold, and I'm sure as hell not drinking it." Dean steps closer to the side of the bed, reaching for the switch on the lamp atop the nightstand. With a click, the room is brought into sharper focus, and he blinks a few times to let his eyes adjust. When they do, he quickly sets down the Styrofoam cup with a muted thunk. "Sam?"

Lids screwed shut against the unwanted light shed across his skin, Sam's dark lashes stand out in stark contrast against his pale skin. Dean takes in the sweat dotting his brother's brow, the chestnut hair dampened across his forehead, the lines of distress across the young face, and feels something in his chest tighten. "Sam, wake up," Dean demands, concern sharpening his words.

Thankfully, Sam's eyes slowly blink open, squinting against the lamplight. "Dean?" He asks hazily, bringing up the back of his hand to swipe blearily at his eyes like a little kid, and okay, maybe that illusion carries through to some of his waking hours, after all. "Time is it?"

"Late." Dean gnaws on his lower lip, still studying his little brother's face. He doesn't like Sam's slow responses, doesn't care for the fact that even after over twelve hours of sleep, Sam still looks wrung out, and could really do without the strange, gnawing feeling making itself present in the pit of his stomach.

After another moment or two of gathering his bearings, Sam hauls himself into a half-sitting position on his elbows, a familiar frown line appearing between his eyes. "What's wrong?" he asks, head tilted.

Dean doesn't beat around the bush. "You look like death warmed over," he mutters, and that's no joke, because Dean just so happens to know exactly what that looks like on his kid brother.

Sam's response is a thick swallow, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment or two before sitting up fully, pushing back blankets as he goes. "I'm alright," he mumbles, and swings his legs over to the side of the bed, forcing Dean to leave his perch.

Watching Sam's movements with an uncertain eye, Dean manages to refrain himself from moving to his brother's aid as Sam staggers to his feet, looking more than a little unsteady as he detangles his wrinkled, day-old clothes from the sheets. "You sure about that?" Dean asks as Sam passes him unsteadily, weaving a somewhat drunken path to his duffel bag.

Sam ignores him as he leans over to dig through piles of unfolded clothes, reminding Dean that they'll have to do laundry soon. As he finally comes up victorious with a clean pair of jeans and a shirt that passes the sniff test, Dean comes up behind him and puts a steadying hand on Sam's shoulder before he can move to the bathroom. "Hey," Dean says, and reaches up to place a hand on the younger man's forehead.

Looking somewhat put off, Sam tries to shrug the touch away. "I don't have a fever," he assures him confidently.

"No," Dean relents, letting his hand fall to his side, and settles for scanning Sam's face again. His brother is right, he doesn't feel warm. But what's more worrisome was the lack of heat coming from his skin, the cool, clammy feeling of sickness that Dean can't help but feel radiating off of him.

Sam must notice Dean's uncertainty, because he offers up a weak smile. "I'm just tired, man." He bundles his clothes tightly to his chest, and his eyes wander to the carpet. "The last few weeks haven't exactly been easy."

Yeah, Dean can heartily agree with that. Plus, he's not exactly sure how much it takes out of a guy to come back from the pearly gates (or wherever it was that Sam went), but it can't be all that restful. "Yeah," Dean says aloud, because God knows he's tired, too.

Sam's mouth twitches and he looks at Dean briefly before turning towards the bathroom. He pauses in the doorway, glancing around the room hopefully. "Maybe after this we could take a break…" he trails off and his eyes snap up to Dean's. "Only for a few days, I mean," he adds hurriedly, as an afterthought.

Dean feels that same pain from last night tighten in his chest, and he forces a smile. "Yeah, Sammy," he replies, but the words feel like broken glass. "Sounds like a plan."

* * *

Once showered and looking a little more the part of someone among the ranks of the living, Dean had no trouble ushering Sam out the motel room door to grab another coffee and a pastry from the diner before heading for the Impala. Aside from a few contrived pleasantries and primordial sounding grunts, Sam didn't seem much up for talking. Dean was reluctant to admit that whatever tension had peaked last night probably wasn't going to be resolved on its own.

Scuffing the toe of his boot along the gravel road of the parking lot, Dean bites off a chunk of his Danish and casts a shaded look at his brother. "So, visiting hours in pediatrics start at noon," Dean begins cautiously, testing the waters. "I was thinking we could start heading that way…see if we can find the parents of the little girl I met last night. Maybe you could do your thing, talk to the doctors, look into when she got sick, the circumstances and all that."

Sam still hadn't asked about what had gone down at the hospital last night in his absence, and apparently wasn't about to start showing any interest at this rate. "Okay," is all he says, sipping absently at his coffee.

Dean felt a surge of irritation. Okay, so it had one of the more heated arguments they'd had in awhile, and yeah, Dean had left angry. But did Sam have to be such a God damn girl about everything and try to goad him into apologizing with the silent treatment? "Course, then we'll have to get back into our nurses garb," he adds as an afterthought, glancing at Sam again. If Dean didn't know any better, he'd say the little jerk isn't even paying attention at all. "Then again, yours have been stinking up in the trunk with that old meatball sub I forgot to take out of there last night."

"Mhm," Sam mumbles, eyes fixed dully off into the distance.

Hypothesis confirmed, Dean thinks, smirking. "Guess we'll have to find you another pair, then," he concludes, gnawing on his lower lip and casting a thoughtful glance at the bright blue sky overhead. "Maybe a nice shade of lavender, this time. Do you think they come in rainbow? Perhaps a little something to represent that other team you bat for, Samantha?"

Finally, some form of awareness is sparked in Sam's eyes. "Huh?" He mumbles, looking at Dean in confusion.

"Welcome back," Dean pretends to appear annoyed, but feels a line of concern crinkle his brow. "You sure don't look like a guy who slept as much as you did last night," he says curiously.

Sam kind of snorts, and brings a fist up to his face, rubbing blearily at his eyes like a tired six-year-old. "Good, 'cause I don't feel like one, either," he mutters with a small, crooked smile. "Must be that lumpy mattress." Sam rolls his head around a few times like it weighs fifty pounds, and his neck gives a few grossly-audible cracks.

"Huh," Dean replies around another gulp of coffee, because aside from a few unpleasant dreams, he's been sleeping like a baby. "Want to go back to the room for a bit? I could just do some sniffing around myself, you know," he tries casually, still eyeing Sam's tired features.

"No," Sam says hurriedly, and seems to take it the wrong way because he ducks his head a little guiltily, letting his hair fall forward to partially hide his profile. "I should be there this time…I don't even know what happened last night," he admits, and glances sideways at his brother like this is supposed to be news to Dean.

Okay, so those God damn puppy dog eyes are trained in his direction, and if collapsing on the carpet was any indication, Sam hasn't been feeling that great lately, so Dean feels a little bit bad. "Want me to fill you in?" he offers, holding out the olive branch.

As they near the Impala, Sam nods a genuine sounding "yeah", and so Dean begins his story as he settles his coffee cup on the roof of the car, searching his pockets for the keys.

By the time they've pulled out of the parking lot and are on the road that will take them into town, Dean is already caught up in the dramatic climax of his heroic tale. "…So she's chanting away, mumbling who knows what kind of mumbo jumbo, when I pull my gun on her and give her one last chance to move it or lose it." Dean can't help but give a cocky smile and tilt of his head to the passenger seat. "She got the picture, put away her pet rock collection, and left."

Sam is staring at him, looking a little less impressed than Dean had been going for. "Just took off because you told her to? Right in the middle of her hex?" he asks, sounding a little disbelieving and a tad too acerbic.

"Yup," Dean responds, and squints his eyes at the road with a grin. "I'm just that good."

Alright, so Dean left a few hearty chunks out of his story. But Sam doesn't really need to know all about the creepily accurate accusations the old bag had pinned on him about his brother, nor did Dean feel the need to bring up the whole ethical debate they'd had going over life-trading and all that business. The last thing Sam needed was to know that he had another person (an albeit freaky one) on his side over this whole crossroads deal thing. What's done is done, and all Dean needs to know is that Sam isn't dead anymore. The rest are small potatoes.

And yes, it was a little bit unsettling that Shimi knew just about everything they'd been through by merely looking at Dean and doing her strange little head tilt, and maybe it was weird that she was far too interested in Winchester business, but if anything more messed up than the norm started going down, Dean would deal with it himself.

The less Sam knew, the better.

"Who do you think she was cursing?" Sam asks next, sounding legitimately curious, for once.

Shit, he should have been paying attention. "Who-now?" Dean asked dumbly, glancing at his little brother in confusion.

Heaving a greatly put-upon sigh, Sam explains himself. "If we're still running on our whole 'illness transferring' theory," Sam starts, and Christ, when he says it like _that, _of course it sounds stupid, "then she must have had a victim already picked out, right? Someone she'd deemed insignificant enough to get the cancer she was going to take from that little girl."

Dean's fingers twist a bit on the leather of the steering wheel. He glances out at the morning pedestrians on the sidewalks. "Mhm," he murmurs absently.

Sam is still going. "So do you think someone else in the hospital is sick now?" he asks, but Dean knows he doesn't really have to answer, because Sam has that inclination in his voice that he only uses when he's talking himself through an idea. "Or maybe it has some sort of delay. Like the 'matter', as you so delicately put it yesterday, is in her hands, so to speak, until she decides what to do with it. Finds who she's going to…" he trails off, and Dean hears him swallow. "…destroy," he finishes quietly.

Several long moments go by, in which Dean finds his attention drifting to two little kids running down the street, caught up in the midst of what looks like an intense game of cops and robbers.

"Dean," Sam's voice snaps him back to attention.

"Hm?" Dean's head whips around in time to find Sam staring at him expectantly. Okay, so maybe his input _was _necessary at this point. It was hard to tell the way Sam rambled. "I don't know, man. But it doesn't really matter, because I stopped her." He explains, and makes sure that the confidence and finality in his voice leaves no room for argument.

A sideways glance at Sam reveals a slightly skeptical expression, and even though his little brother looks like he wants to add something, to question him further, doubtfully, Sam refrains. "Good," he replies.

Dean returns his gaze back to the road as they near the turnoff for the hospital.

Right. Good.

* * *

Dean figures their game plan at the hospital will go as follows: find the little girl's doctor, find out what the little girl's name actually _is, _and learn more about her specific type of cancer, course of treatment, all that jazz. Sam has some sort of geek-boy theory that involves stealing charts so he can track cell division and compare them to before and after the little chanting fiasco that went on last night.

Something about lymphoblasts and Dalmatians or some shit. Dean tuned him out somewhere in the middle.

Pediatrics is quiet once again because, well, there's only one freakin' patient in there. Dean makes sure to put on his most charming grin as they make a pit stop at the nurse's station. When he asks for the chart that belongs to the single patient in the room across the hall, the middle aged woman with bee-hive hair scowls at him, and Dean's pretty sure the nametag she's wearing has to be stolen, 'cause no _way _her name is actually Joy. But he puts on his best 'sorry, I'm new and cute' act, and somehow they finagle it from her meaty grasp.

"Okay, so," Dean says as they pause outside the hospital room door, scanning the papers in front of him with an oblivious eye. "I have no clue what I'm lookin' at here, dude. Except her name is Claire Owens, and she's eight." He pauses, wincing. "That sucks."

Beside him, Sam kind of nods. "What was she diagnosed with?" he asks quietly.

Dean flips to a different page, like that's going to help. "Beats me, Bill Nye. It's all gibberish to me," he grumbles, and tries to pass the folder off to his little brother. "Want to wipe that condescending look off your face and take a gander for yourself?"

Sam sighs but relents, taking the small stack and scanning it carefully. Dean takes the opportunity to run a cursory eye over the younger man himself, and ends up frowning. Sam's still looking like something the wendigo dragged in. Actually, that's being generous. Dean kind of wishes he'd forced Sam to stay back at the motel.

Not like Sam can really be forced to do anything. But still, would have been worth a shot.

"Stage two Acute Lymphoctic Leukemia," Sam says, his voice quiet and pinched-sounding.

Dean wonders if that's supposed to mean anything to him. Because, right, isn't Leukemia cancer of the blood? Why the need for all the other fancy words? "Stage two?" He repeats aloud. "So, what, Claire's cancer is the second best at kicking all the other cancer's butts?"

Sam's response is to sigh like he's tired and fed up, eyes closing irritably as his free hand comes up to rub the bridge of his nose. "I don't think it quite works like that, Dean," he mumbles. "I think it's the opposite. Stage two is the level of how advanced the cancer is. One being the least developed."

"Oh," Dean says, and lowers his eyes to the linoleum. He doesn't really have all that much time to think about how awful that is and completely screwed up, (the girl is _eight_, he remembers _Sam_ at eight), because his attention keeps straying to the paleness of Sam's face, the way his hands are slightly shaking. "Hey, you okay, man?" he asks quietly.

Because he's been caught red-handed, Sam drops his hand from his face where it had been rubbing at his temples, tries to bury himself back into Claire's patient files. "Yeah. Just a bit of a headache," he admits casually.

For Dean, that's reason enough for a pause. "Like an 'I'm-a-doofus-who-stays-up-all-night' headache? Or a 'freaky-vision-boy' headache?" He asks nervously. Not that Dean likes the thought of either one.

Sam actually smirks a little bit at that. "The first one," he assures, sucking in a deep breath through his nose and letting it out, slowly.

Dean watches, and tries to hold his tongue, because Sam can say what he likes, but at the moment the kid looks like he's about to give this joint a run for its money. Dean enjoyed his morning pastry and all, but he isn't too keen on seeing a repeat performance of it, all the same. "You're lookin' a little pale," he says, waving an aimless finger in the general direction of Sam's face.

"Yeah, well…" Sam says, like _that's_ any kind of answer, but because it wasn't an outright rebuke, it speaks volumes. Then again, so does the slight sheen of sweat Sam's got going, and the anxious swallow. "This hospital makes me nervous. Let's get this over with."

Dean wants to say, "since when?", but a knot of something annoying and tight is starting to mess with his own stomach, so instead he nods as they close in on Claire's room. "We'll make it fast," he assures, and at Sam's nod, they open the door.

It may be the same setting of last night's big drama, but to Dean, he has to take a good look around the bright, smiling room just to make sure they're in the right place. With the curtains wide open, cheerful sunlight dances across the walls and brings the painted scenery to life.

It kind of makes Dean want to throw up.

A quick scan of the beds comes up empty, even the one Dean knows is supposed to hold the room's single patient, and that makes him frown. But a moment later Sam is elbowing him in the side, nodding his head to the corner where a bin of toys are spread out on the floor. In the middle of a chaos of Lego, Barbies, and ink markers is a little girl wearing a pink baseball cap and a smile so wide her cheeks have to be hurting.

Even though his gut instincts tell him it's true, Dean still has to do a double take to ensure that this grinning face belongs to the same sickly little girl he met the night before.

Dean hangs back, still slightly stunned, as Sam approaches Claire slowly, all warm smiles and casual demeanor. He crouches down to the little girl's level to catch her attention. "Hi there," he says, and she looks up to give him a shy smile. "I'm Sam."

Claire looks at him bashfully before returning her attention back to the squeak of a pink felt pen against a crisp sheet of paper. "Hi," she replies shyly.

Sam tilts his head and watches her draw for a few seconds, a hand reaching out to steady himself on the floor. "Your name is Claire, right?" he asks, and when she nods, Sam gives her another friendly grin. "That's a really nice…um…bunny?" he asks hesitantly, squinting at the drawing.

Claire looks up at him, a smile crinkling her eyes. "It's a monster, silly!"

Sam's eyes narrow, and he shoots Dean a sideways glance. "Monster, huh?" he begins accusingly.

Choosing that moment to step into view, Dean comes closer and looks down at Claire's paper. Alright, so maybe the 'monster under the bed' story hadn't been his best, but if it _had _held any truth, he sure as hell wouldn't have been hunting anything furry and magenta with big black eyelashes. The kid is going to ruin his rep.

"Right," Dean says, and when Claire notices him for the first time and gets a disturbingly wide-eyed, I-may-start-screaming-now look in her eyes, he breaks out his most charming grin. "Claire and I did a sweep of the room last night. All the beds were clean as a whistle. Isn't that right, Claire?"

After a brief moment of indecision, the littler girl smiles widely, glad to be included. "Right," she confirms with a self-satisfied nod, and returns her attention to coloring.

Sam looks at him disapprovingly, so Dean shrugs.

A click of the door opening makes Dean's head spin to their only exit strategy. A woman with messy brown hair in a bun bustles into the room, attention focused on the purple knapsack she's trying to juggle while righting the sleeves of an inside-out jacket. "Claire, sweetie, I found your…" the woman notices them standing there and straightens, eyeing them curiously. "Hello."

Sam is the first one in motion, standing up straight and holding out a steady hand for her to shake. "You must be Mrs. Owens. I'm Sam, this is Dr. Chochrane," he says, nodding at Dean, and damn it, it's no fun if Sam isn't actually going to _use _the name Dean made up for him.

Mrs. Owens, still looking a little flustered and more than a little uncertain, reaches out a hesitant hand to Sam's. Are you Dr. Kennedy's interns?" she asks apprehensively.

"Yes, we are," Dean jumps in, always happy to be handed an out. "Dr. Kennedy just sent us by. To make sure everything was squared away for your…" Dean takes one look at the bag and coat in the woman's hand, and takes a guess, "departure."

Relaxing, Mrs. Owens drops her rigid stance and offers a small, tired smile. "Oh. Well, thank you." She swings the small knapsack onto one of her shoulders and motions to the little girl on the floor. "We've done this enough times now. I've already picked up her new prescriptions from the pharmacy, and I've scheduled a check-up appointment for next week."

Sam, whether he's faking it or is actually reading something, Dean isn't sure, flips through the patient file in his hand some more and nods approvingly. "Good," he says, and looks at Claire. "She must be happy to be going home."

Mrs. Owens nods, face instantly brightening. "You better believe it. I haven't seen her this energized in…well, forever! When I got here this morning, I barely recognized her." A corner of her mouth twitches from its smile as her eyes sparkle with tears held in check. "I can't believe we get to take her home so early this time. I guess that chemo regimen they've got her on is finally starting to do its job."

With a barely concealed frown, Sam nods and feigns assurance. "Must be," he agrees.

Shaking herself from her daze, Mrs. Owens holds out the child-sized coat with a smile. "Claire, honey, you ready to go?" she asks, beaming.

Pulling herself up from the floor, Claire returns the happy expression and adjusts her hat on her bald head. "Uh huh." She clamors over and tangles her way through the arms of her jacket. Once properly dressed, one hand holding tightly to her mothers, Claire shyly gives Dean's sleeve a tug. "This is for you," she says quietly, and holds out her drawing.

Feeling a kick of something alarming and painful in his chest, Dean accepts the gift with a crooked grin. "Thanks, Claire," he stammers, and struggles not to just melt to the floor right then and there under that little girl's dazzling smile.

"Okay, come on, Slick." Mrs. Owens teases, and waves as they open the door. "Thanks, guys," she says, and with a meaningful stare, they leave.

Alone in the quiet, sun-filled room, Dean lets out a huff of breath and looks fondly down at the brightly colored picture in his hands. "Well. That's good." A warm feeling fills his chest when he sees the dashing stick-figure that has been added to the corner of the drawing, wielding a gun.

Sam's voice, strained and tired-sounding, breaks his trance. "Good?" he asks in disbelief, and when Dean looks up, Sam has his arms crossed in front of his chest. "How do you figure?"

Dean's eyebrows knit together. "Uh, the sick little girl gets to go home with her mommy?" he says snidely, gesturing to the closed door.

"Don't you get it? She's feeling _better, _Dean." When all Sam gets in response is a 'no shit, Sherlock' look, he continues. "From what I can make out of these charts, they did tests this morning. If all these check marks and staff signatures are as good as I'm interpreting them to be, they're releasing her from the hospital because she's practically _cured_, Dean. Her cell counts are almost back to normal. It looks like they're going to diagnose a tentative remission."

Again, Dean wonders for a moment how in hell Sam can have a problem with any of this. But then he gets a clue, and oh yeah, miracles like that don't really happen in this shit hole of a world they live in. So he glances up at his little brother hesitantly and frowns. "So what does this mean?" he asks, although he doesn't really want to know.

Sam swallows hard, blinks once or twice, and seems to steady himself. "It means you were wrong, man. Shimi cured her, and…" he trails off and brings up a hand to swipe shakily at his pale face. "…and now she's going to hurt someone else. If she hasn't already."

Dean stays quiet and stands his ground, watching Sam for several long, heavy moments. He sees as Sam squints some more, lets out a stifled grunt of pain, and brings up a hand to squeeze at the bridge of his nose. "Sam?" he asks, his voice low.

"I'm fine, I'm…" Sam starts, and gives up. He lets out another slight moan, and that's it, Dean is across the room, a hand on Sam's arm. "I don't feel so good, Dean."

Biting back fear, Dean gives him a slight push back towards one of the hospital beds. "No kidding. Come on, sit down a minute." Slowly, gently, he eases Sam down until he's sitting slumped on the nearest mattress.

For several long, agonizing moments, Sam sits, slightly bent over, and just breathes. Dean has to duck his head just to see any of Sam's face, and his little brother looks sheet-white and drawn. "Something's wrong with me," he says, and if the strained sound of his voice wasn't enough to make panic claw at Dean's chest, the fear behind his words does the job just fine.

"Well that much is obvious, Sam." Dean gives the younger man's shoulder a squeeze, and feels Sam leaning into his grip, like it's the only thing keeping him from toppling over. Swallowing over a lump in his throat, he does the same with his other hand. "You're not getting enough sleep. You aren't eating. You've gotta start taking better care of yourself."

Eyes squeezed shut, Sam gives a weak shake of his head. "No, I…" his voice tapers off, and after a moment, his eyes open. "It's something else."

Dean feels his stomach drop. That thing that had been digging at the back of his mind? Right now it's stabbing him with a fucking ice pick. But he's not going there. He won't. He outright _refuses_. "Come on. Let's get you back to the motel." He slides one of his arms down to the crook of Sam's elbow to help him off the bed.

Shakily, Sam pulls free from his grip and suddenly Dean finds a handful of his scrubs in Sam's white-knuckled grip. "Dean," he gasps, and his eyes are wide and frantic. "Something is happening to me."

"Sam," Dean starts, the name like shards of glass in his throat. He tries to pry the hands free from his shirt.

But Sam's got a desperate, determined burn to his gaze, and he won't let go. "What happened here last night?" he asks, and he's trembling.

This time Dean manages to pull free, and he glares at Sam, hard. "We're going," he says, and it's his very best Dad voice, because he is _not _talking about this bullshit anymore.

Sam lets him pull away, but he sits there, hunched over on the little bed that would barely fit half of him. A hand wrapped loosely around his stomach and a look of _something _in his eyes that's making Dean feel vaguely nauseous, and Dean wants to get the hell out of this building now, thank you very much. "Did Shimi do something to me, Dean?" Sam asks, and that little-kid voice, that 'my big brother will make everything better' hopefulness is a punch to the gut.

Dean doesn't think. "No," he says flatly, and stalks to the door, swinging it open and holding it there. "Let's go."

Wide-eyes stand out starkly on pale features. Dean can see him thinking, can decipher just about every emotion that crosses his little brother's face as they go by, one at a time, and Dean knows Sam wants to argue. But with a heavy swallow, Sam wearily pulls himself up from the mattress, steadies himself once when he lists alarmingly to the left, and then walks out of the room.

Dean stands in the doorway he holds open, and stares blankly around the room. The smiling clouds almost seem like they're weaving a lazy pattern around the walls, and Dean tightens his fist around the piece of paper, now forgotten, in his hand. When his eyes start to burn, he blinks and clouds stop moving. He makes sure to close the door behind him when he leaves.


End file.
